The Whispering Shadows Forest had always been a bad place for a forced march.
Kael, the supreme commander of the Order of the Vanguard and, without a doubt, the strongest knight on the continent of Elderia, did not trust this silence. The decisive campaign against the northern tribes was rapidly approaching, and the cost of error was too high. Scouts had already inspected the perimeter and reported that all was clear, but none of them possessed his level of aura perception. Instincts, honed by years of bloody battles, screamed that something was wrong. Ordering his squad to stay put, Kael stepped alone into the dense thicket.
But instead of an ambush, he stumbled upon an inconspicuous cave entrance—and nearly broke his nose on an invisible wall.
"— Damn it to the Abyss," Kael muttered, rubbing his bruised nose bridge and frowning into the void.
The space trembled. His gauntleted hand pressed against the barrier. It felt like a dense aura, yet it was completely transparent. A novice's aura glowed with a faint gray light, a master's with blue or red, while his own blazed with dazzling gold. Whoever created this barrier possessed either monstrous control or an entirely different kind of magic.
Drawing his sword, Kael carefully channeled a thin stream of golden aura into the blade and touched the barrier. No reaction. He squinted, noticing unstable, flickering symbols imprinted directly into the air along the edges. It all resembled an ancient stasis field, eroded by centuries. Carefully studying the structure, Kael pressed his palm against a particularly unstable cluster of runes, intending to break it open with his energy.
As soon as the golden aura flared, the ancient construct reacted to the colossal amount of power.
Click.
The transparent wall shattered with the sound of breaking ice. An emergency release mechanism had activated, simply unable to contain such energy.
"— A flimsy defense for what lies within," Kael snorted, and, holding his sword at the ready, stepped into the darkness of the cave.
Inside, there were neither northerners nor traps. Only a stone pedestal, above which hovered a massive crystal, pulsating with purple light and perfectly preserved thanks to local stasis. And above it hung a shimmering projection.
Kael froze. The projection showed a woman of eerie, inhuman beauty. Luxurious black hair, predatory scarlet eyes. In her hands, she held an identical crystal and whispered something.
"— Appear, spawn of the Abyss... — a distorted voice reached him, as if from another dimension. — I, the Ash Mistress, summon you! Become my blade, tear apart this pathetic world of humans before they summon their Heroes!"
Kael frowned in bewilderment. Heroes? Other worlds? What interdimensional nonsense was this madwoman spouting? In Elderia, there had never been any summons. Only steel, blood, and Aura.
The woman in the projection triumphantly raised the crystal sphere:
"— Activation!"
The spell frantically sought a vessel of supreme power. Like a beacon in the darkness, Kael's golden aura, crushing everything in its path, drew the ancient magic directly to him. The stone in the cave flared with dazzling light. The knight instinctively raised his sword, unleashing his aura for absolute defense, but the light pierced straight through his physical shield.
The impact struck directly in his chest. Kael felt a sickening jolt and a dreadful sensation, as if he was being forcibly torn from his own body. His limbs instantly went numb, his fingers released the heavy sword, and he felt his body collapse lifelessly onto the cold stone floor, as an unknown force twisted his consciousness from its shell.
The world plunged into darkness.
"— WHAT THE HELL?!"
The voice echoed through the luxurious, well-soundproofed chambers, bouncing off marble walls and silk canopies.
Kael sat up sharply in the enormous bed, gasping for air. His heart pounded wildly. Military instincts kicked in instantly: he gritted his teeth and tried to summon his golden aura to create a protective barrier.
Nothing. Only a terrifying, ringing emptiness where his core had once blazed.
Cold panic pierced his consciousness like a sharp needle. Kael checked his pulse—rapid, but steady. He clenched his fists, testing his grip strength. His balance was completely off. His hands clearly lacked the calloused, massive musculature he was accustomed to.
He looked down.
Instead of the roughened hands of the strongest knight, before his eyes were delicate, pale fingers with immaculate black nail polish.
His breath hitched. Frantically feeling his chest with trembling hands, Kael encountered two rather impressive soft mounds, covered in delicate silk.
He froze. This couldn't be. An enemy illusion? The aftermath of a severe concussion?
Leaping from the bed, Kael lost his center of gravity and stumbled awkwardly. Where was his sword? His gaze darted around the lavishly furnished room. No weapons. He immediately grabbed a heavy silver hairpin from the nearest dressing table, clenching it like an improvised dagger, and finally forced himself to look into the enormous mirror in the corner.
Staring back at him from the mirror was the very woman from the projection. Perfect posture, scarlet eyes, an arrogant face.
"— Long live the Abyss... — Kael exhaled grimly."
The voice was female. Velvety, deep, and terrifyingly alien.
Then the weight of reality crashed down on him. His mighty body, left unconscious—or perhaps dead—in that ancient cave. His rank. His army, waiting at the forest's edge. His oath to the king. Everything collapsed in an instant. He squeezed his eyes shut, clenching the silver hairpin until his knuckles were white, mourning the loss of everything he had built over the years.
Somewhere deep within his consciousness…
In the farthest, darkest corner of the mental space, a creature that had recently considered itself a powerful archdemon cowered.
The summoning plan had failed. Isabella, Scourge of the Seven Circles, found herself trapped within her own mind. She had intended to extract the soul of a pathetic, brainless beast—a faint spark she would quickly absorb to establish herself in the human world.
Instead, the spell had drawn him.
Isabella immediately gathered all her demonic will and surged forward, intending to destroy the soul of the unwelcome guest. But as soon as she approached the center of the spiritual world, a suffocating pressure descended upon her.
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It was a Shadow. Colossal. Ancient. It lurked directly beneath the knight's soul—a bottomless entity whose existence Kael himself was unaware of. The incredible weight of its presence nearly crushed Isabella's essence into dust in a fraction of a second.
Please, don't let it awaken... — Isabella prayed frantically, recoiling in terror and merging with the absolute darkness.
In the real world…
Suddenly, Kael's lips twitched involuntarily. For a moment, his vocal cords yielded to the residual muscle memory of the body's former owner.
"— You pathetic worms, you will choke on your own blood when I unleash my wrath upon you!"
SMACK!
Kael sharply swung his hand and delivered a resounding, sobering slap to himself. The sharp crack echoed through the room, leaving a red mark on his pale skin.
"— What nonsense did I just blurt out? — he hissed, clutching the edge of the dressing table and breathing heavily."
He needed to get a grip. If this body continued to spontaneously spout villainous drivel, he'd be hanged in the first town square before he could explain the nature of soul transference. He was the supreme commander. He had survived the bloody siege of the Dark Citadel. He would adapt to this too.
A warmth spread through his body. A dull ache pulsed in his lower abdomen, and an irrational, sticky irritation simmered within, hindering his tactical focus.
"— So this is what the women in the supply train complained about," Kael muttered through gritted teeth.
Setting aside the hairpin, he rushed to a mahogany desk, where stacks of letters and an open conduit lay. He needed to understand where he was and what time it was. Kael's eyes scanned the neat, elegant handwriting: "Year 412 of the Crown. Month of the Gryphon. Estate expenses…"
Kael exhaled. There was no time difference. Year 412. Exactly three days had passed since his squad entered the Whispering Shadows Forest. He hadn't been thrown a century into the future.
Next—an internal check. He sat on the edge of the bed, closed his eyes, and tried to sense his internal reserves. But instead of the blazing core of golden aura, there was only an icy, unseen Abyss. No magic. He was effectively an ordinary human. Or rather, a woman.
A wave of irritation flared within him again due to his powerlessness, and as soon as his strict emotional control wavered, his lips twitched again:
"— I will burn this world to ashes... — his mouth whispered in a venomous, arrogant tone."
Kael immediately bit his tongue until he tasted copper. Clear, — he thought, instantly grasping the pattern. When I lose control or succumb to emotions, the residual instincts of the body's owner emerge. My head must remain cool. Control your mind—control your mouth.
Having finalized his plan of action, Kael approached the enormous wardrobe. Tossing a pile of silk dresses onto the floor, he grimly shook his head—fighting in these was impossible. At the very bottom of the chest, he found sturdy leather riding breeches and a simple linen shirt—apparently, the demoness's disguise for stealthy excursions.
Awkwardly twisting his unaccustomedly long black hair into a practical ponytail and securing it with the silver hairpin, Kael quickly changed, tucked the hairpin into his belt, and strode decisively, with a soldier's measured step, into the corridor.
Right by the doors stood a young girl in a neat maid's dress. She was unnaturally pale, with slightly pointed ears and strange, vertical pupils. A foreigner? Kael noted to himself. Someone from the Southern Archipelago? Eccentric nobility favored exotic servants.
This was Niya—a lesser demoness. She knew her mistress's true nature, knew of the plan to thwart the Hero's summoning, and now expected to see the Ash Mistress in silks, ready to weave intrigues. Instead, before her stood her mistress in coarse men's breeches, stained with dust, and a simple shirt. Her hair was carelessly tied back, and her gaze expressed not a readiness to weave conspiracies, but an intention to personally slaughter an entire garrison.
"— Hey," Kael said evenly, keeping his emotions in an iron grip. — Where are the weapons kept in this house?"
The silver pitcher on Niya's tray clattered desperately. Mistress Archdemon... asking for physical weapons? Why would she need ordinary steel when she could incinerate a city with a flick of her hand? And why was she standing like a dockworker?
"— W-weapons, my lady Isabella? — Niya squeaked, almost buckling at the knees."
Kael frowned, a spark of irritation at the servant's incompetence stirred within him. And that was enough. The body's instincts immediately seized control of his vocal cords:
"— Move your bones, you pathetic slave, or I'll rip out your spine and make a scabbard from it!"
Niya shrieked in terror, dropping the tray—water instantly soaked into the expensive carpet—and cowered in a corner. Damn it! — the demoness thought frantically. The summoning ritual failed! A chaotic spirit has possessed my mistress!
Kael rubbed his temple roughly, suppressing his anger. Cold. Only cold.
"— Forget it," he said in a normal, human tone. — Live. I'll find it myself."
He descended the grand staircase. Kael understood that aristocratic city homes didn't have full armories, but wealthy estates always displayed ceremonial blades. In the hall, he noticed a hand-and-a-half sword hanging on the wall. Taking it down and drawing it from its ornate scabbard, Kael critically examined the blade. The hilt was tastelessly ornate, but the blade—of castle steel—was razor-sharp. The balance was slightly off, but it was workable.
Deep within his soul…
Isabella watched the events unfold in absolute silent horror. What is this monster doing to my body?! — the archdemoness screamed internally. Why are we walking? Why did we take this piece of human artisanal garbage?!
She wanted to forcibly regain control of her vocal cords to incinerate the capital right now. But as soon as she stirred, the colossal Shadow deep within the knight's soul stirred again. The suffocating pressure pinned Isabella to the outermost edge of her own consciousness.
On the street…
The capital's streets looked familiar, yet strange at the same time. Walking towards the Eastern District, Kael noted the details. Streetlights glowed with bright blue stones instead of the usual oil. Since when did the City Council spend gold on alchemical light-stones? The banners of merchant guilds had slightly altered crests. The architecture of the distant palace seemed... sharper. *Is this an illusion? Or am I in a parallel reality?*
Ignoring the attention was also impossible. In a medieval society, an incredibly beautiful aristocrat striding purposefully in men's breeches and with a sword at her hip attracted all eyes. Men openly stared, ladies whispered behind their fans. Kael ignored them with his usual military indifference.
His destination was the headquarters of the Order of the Vanguard.
Heavy iron gates met him with the crossed spears of two guards.
"— Halt. Unauthorized entry to Vanguard territory is forbidden," one of them strictly intoned.
Kael did not try to force his way through. Without his aura, he was merely a woman with a sword. Instead, he leveraged his thirty years of authority. He straightened, fixing the guard with an icy, piercing gaze that promised severe disciplinary action.
"— Special courier for Royal Intelligence," Kael lied crisply, his female voice sounding as if it were issuing an order on a parade ground. — Authorization code: 'Iron Dawn'. Lower your spear, soldier, before I send you to clean latrines for a month."
The guards flinched. The tone, posture, and active secret code—it was impeccable military protocol.
"— F-forgive me, sir... I mean, madam! Pass through! — the guard stammered, stepping back."
Kael stepped into the courtyard. It smelled of dust, sweat, and weapon oil. Dozens of knights practiced strikes on wooden dummies. The clang of steel warmed his soul. Finally, something he understood. At the training weapon rack stood Gareth—a massive man with a thick brown beard, Kael's loyal second-in-command.
Kael approached, maintaining his military demeanor:
"— Captain Gareth," he called out sharply. — Intelligence. I need a squad status report. Has the sweep in the Whispering Shadows Forest been completed? The King expects a report by evening."
Gareth slowly turned. He eyed the beautiful brunette suspiciously, his hand casually resting on his sword's pommel.
"— Intelligence? — Gareth slowly repeated. — They don't usually send noblewomen in dusty breeches. And they certainly don't use specific jargon like 'sweep'. You speak more like a trench officer, madam, not a spy. Who are you, really?"
Kael cursed his oversight. Gareth was too smart to fall for such a cheap trick. Kael had already opened his mouth, trying to concoct a plausible legend on the fly...
But the words caught in his throat.
From the main barracks came heavy, measured footsteps, accompanied by the familiar jingle of golden spurs.
"— What's the holdup, Gareth? Why are civilians interrogating my officers right on the parade ground? — a stern, painfully familiar voice rang out."
Kael slowly turned, as if submerged in water.
On the porch stood a tall man in shining golden armor. The white cloak of the Vanguard rested on his broad shoulders. Short dark hair, a stern gaze from gray eyes, and a distinct jagged scar crossing his left eyebrow.
This was the Strongest Knight. This was Kael.
The man on the porch regarded the black-haired woman standing before him with cold superiority. Kael, in the woman's body, stopped breathing. He looked at his own face, his own armor, his own scar—the very one he had received five years ago in the Battle of the Dark Citadel.
If that's me... — the thought crashed into his skull, threatening to shatter the remnants of his sanity. — If he is me... then who, in the name of all gods, am I?!